


Strike a Pose

by Human_Being



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: A bit of angst maybe, And of course Nicaise will be Nicaise so be aware of foul mouth and political incorrectness, Canon sensitive situations will be addressed also, Devil Wears Prada inspired AU, Laurent of course will be Laurent for the good and the bad, M/M, Multi, So most warnings on his personality will apply, There will be crack so beware, tags may change and new can be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 05:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6642583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Human_Being/pseuds/Human_Being
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Damen is an investigative conflict zone photographic reporter that, by ‘chance’, is sent to work at Vere  - yes, the  iconic fashion magazine.<br/>And the editor-in-chief is… Well, you kinda knows how it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mishima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishima/gifts).



> Larrrrgely inspired on a Devil Wears Prada AU, but not… quite. Let’s see how it goes.  
> Work's title comes from... Vogue, from Madonna. 
> 
> And also a big thanks to Mishima, who gave me wonderful insights on this one. Bae, this is for you.

 

* * *

# Prologue

* * *

**_"You know you can do it!"_ **

_**(** _ _**Or not)** _

 

 

It was a cool evening at the town, but he barely could feel it. He was trembling, almost shaking, but not of cold.

He strolled through the office, as if the elevator had spit him out.

“Good evening, sir”. The assistant, despite the dreadful look on her eyes, flinched slightly; but not to the point of partaking her manners. “How can I help…”

“Jokaste” He snarled, heading to the elegantly wooden office door ahead. “She’s in there.”

“I am sorry, sir, but she’s on a very important phone conference and…”

“She will hang up. Don’t follow me.”

He burst the door open and walked in.  

Jokaste was at her desk, on a fine leather chair that may have costed a small fortune. Everything about her was like that, though. From the perfectly tailored high-end suit to the exquisitely brown hair streaked with platinum highlights, every part of her did not only stated beauty, but also screamed ‘money’.

Typical self-made top-of-the-game businesswoman; his late father himself once said that, had any of his sons been born with her talent, his company would be richer tenfold. Back then he had no reasons to worry: On his twenties, Damianos could not resist the ambitious young executive he eventually came to marry, among great celebration and promises of eternal love.

That was then. Three years from _now_.

Any other woman would be flinching behind the desk, facing the cold hatred on his eyes and the imposing presence his height and size could muster. But not Jokaste.

With a flicker on her eyes, she merely acknowledged his presence there, calmly finishing her call to then face him, with a cool expression that gave nothing away.

“Damianos, what a surprise.” She said. “How can I help you?”

“An email, Jokaste?” He hissed. “You get to ditch me out of Syria conflict press coverage with a fucking email?”

“Oh, please.” She merely rolled her eyes. “So now you come to my office to cuss at me?”

“Well, yes, since you won’t return any of your husband’s calls!”

“Ex-husband, isn’t it?”

“Our divorce is not out yet”

“Damen…” She paused.

“Don’t you dare to ‘Damen’ me now, Jokaste.” He spat, the mention of his childhood nickname angering him even more. “Not after what you have done.”

“Get a grip on yourself, would you? I am trying to solve this situation amicably.”

“Amicably?” He scoffed. “There’s a war going on, which my team was doing a pretty good job on covering, and you dragged me, ME, an award-winning investigative photo reporter, out of my game to shoot fashion for a living without even giving me a call. Pretty fucking amicable, isn’t it?”  

“Damen…”

“You are dragging my name into the mud!” He yelled. “I don’t know what kind of filthy pleasure you feel by putting your own husband, the man you claimed to love, through this public humiliation, but-”

“You are my best photographer. Vere Magazine needs a good photographer. I don’t see your point, really.”

“You don’t see my point?” Damen scoffed. “You are fucking unbelievable.”

“Didn’t you hear me? It’s Vere Magazine. There are more than a few photographers out there that would kill for this job. What’s so humiliating on being head of photography on one of the most prominent fashion magazines of the world?”

“You are doing this to put me down. You are so low, but so low, you’d use your position here to harm my career. Out of spite, because you claim I cheated on you.”

“I claim you cheated on me?” Jokaste sneered. “Now that we're at it, I guess you're saying I am, what, imagining things when I recall you fucking Erasmus in the ass right next door?  And not for the first time, as rumor has it. Oh, and there was Lykaios as well. How’s that for public humiliation to you?”

“We weren’t together then.” Damen jolted. “My career has nothing to do with our problems.”

“I am not relocating you to Vere because of our problems. This is your saying, not mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are totally doing this because you are mad with me out of the Erasmus thing. Is it because he works here or because he’s a man? If it’s the second, you knew I bedded guys as well. As you did girls too, or you will tell me you didn’t?”

“I did. At college. A couple of times. You did it a few more times than just a couple, didn’t you?

“Maybe. So?”

“Will you tell me I need not to worry, it’s what, just a phase?”

“Maybe it isn’t, Jokaste. Maybe I do enjoy myself with dudes sometimes. Anyway. It’s not fair using my job to get to me. I did not bed any of them while I was with you. Not even Erasmus.”

“As you said before, the divorce wasn’t out yet.” She narrowed her blue eyes.

“So that’s it? You get the editorial board to get me out of my project just because your business timing understands I will serve the company better by shooting models and stuff? Do you think anyone will buy this shit? You are doing this because you want to make me pay." Damen clenched his teeth, his heart thumping loud on his chest. "Because you are too damn stubborn to give us another chance.”

He saw the flinch on her face.

“Say it, Jokaste. Say it that you don’t love me. I know you do.”

“What I feel for you” She said, on a quiet voice. “It will take time to dwindle down. I know. But it’s over. It’s better for us both and you know it. We are not meant to be, the fastest you get it, the better.”

“So It’s like, yes, you love me, but you have this point to proof to me?”

“Damen…”

“And what’s your point this time?”

“My point on on us, is” Jokaste said, as calm as she could be (and it was a lot, considering the situation at hand) “You do guys, but always in the context of this closeted little world of yours where someday you’ll find a princess you’ll marry and have one of those perfect ad-like families. But I’m not this princess, and I doubt you’ll ever find her. Soon enough you will come to realize it yourself, and I am not the woman who’s gonna be caught by surprise when you do.”

 

***

 

“Didn’t I tell you this was going to happen?”

Indeed. Nikandros, his oldest friend, warned him: Stay the fuck away from Jokaste.

He married her.

Damianos, son of Theomedes, founder of Akielos Daily Newspaper, now a proeminent media portal, was not exactly known as one to follow good advice.

“My project is gone. My marriage is gone. Pretty fucking amazing life of mine”

His voice slurred. Well, since he got himself inside his friend’s condo for he couldn’t go back to the one he and Jokaste used to share, he decided he would absolutely not go through this sober.

“And I bet, Damen" Nikandros shook his head. "You're actually mad about Jokaste saying it’s over yet again, not for her fucking you over at your job.”  

Damen frowned.  

“...She came up with this shit that she’s doing it because I am living inside… a closeted little world of mine?”

“Like, you're a closet-case or something?”

“Yes. I guess. Who the fuck gets what Jokaste really means when she opens her mouth.” Damen shrugged. “I mean, okay, I’ve been with Erasmus and-”

“I told you you shouldn’t do that either.”  

“...You did.” Damen rolled his eyes while gulping a considerable amount of beer.

“But really” Nikandros sipped at his bottle. “I understand a chick who ditches you because you can’t keep lil’Damen in your pants.”

“Not so little-”

“Well, whatever, thankfully I never been formally introduced to him, though.” His friend scoffed. “But closet-case, you? She should come up with a better excuse, if she wanted to justify her fucking you over with the help of that fucker you have for a half-brother.”

“That was crude. And what the fuck Kastor has to do with-”  

“Kastor, the way I see it, was the one goading your thankfully now ex-wife to do this.” Nikandros stated, flatly. “A much bigger problem lays on you not reckoning Kastor as the bonafide son of a bitch that he is.”

Damen closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest drowsily on the flexed wrist of his hand holding the beer.

Yes, Nikandros was right. Jokaste could not do this without Kastor approval. More than that: without Kastor’s aid at the company’s board.

Actually Nikandros has been right all along, about so many things.

He felt sad, disappointed, betrayed. But surprised?

Not really.

What hurt him the most (and many things hurt him now, that he could state as a goddam friggin’ truth) is that despite he always argued Kastor would never deliberately hurt him, he kind of sensed all the blows coming. One after the other, truth to be said. He just couldn’t bring himself to stop them, for it would mean admitting his half-brother hated his guts.

Kastor was, after all, his only family left after his father died.

 

***

 

"Rise and shine!" A deep voice said, as Damen felt the sun prying its way through his eyes from an open window.

Which, by the way, wasn’t supposed to be open at all.

He was on his friend’s condo and it was late morning already, but he meant to stay in bed far longer than that. The shutters at the window, however, were totally open; the room lit by the strong sunlight. And, oh, the beer he had yesterday was stinging in his head as a hangover.

Damn, one can’t even have a little time to be depressed in peace?

He eyed the culprit a stern look. Nikandros was all suited up like he’s about to go to work, looking at him sternly.

“What do you want.” He growled, trying to cover his head. “Shouldn’t you be working or something?”

“I should, because certainly my money doesn’t come up by itself. instead I’m here.” Nikandros pulled his blankets. “It’s working time, you should be at the office. Setting the headlines for your staff.”

“I cannot express with words how thrilled I feel to work at a fashion magazine”

“Damen, you know why Kastor’s doing it, don’t you?” Nikandros stated, it was not a question. “He wants you to quit. Or, worse yet, get fired. Then he will have the ways to kick you off the company for good.”

“I know.” Damen grimaced.

“So will you stay here and hand it over to him? No. You get up and go to work.”

“Nikki, do I look like a fashion photographer to you? This is not my game. Period.”

“Jokaste is right on one thing, though. You are a hell of a photographer. And, in a studio, you can have control over variables you didn’t have on a conflict zone. Now, imagine this: You go there, get the job as head of Vere’s photo editorials and do the good job you always did. How would Jokaste and Kastor look when they realize their scheme to screw you over backfired at their faces?”

Damen eyed his friend carefully.

“C’mon, dude. It can’t be that bad.” Nikandros, always loyal to a fault, cheered um up. “I think you gonna nail it.”

 

***


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

# I

* * *

**Devil wears Prada. And Gucci, and Armani  
(from neck to toe)**

 

 

So that was it. He was on Vere’s headquarters.

An impressive building, just as expected. Damen knew that, in here, careers could be raised from the ground just as much they could be destroyed - after all it _was_ the iconic fashion magazine. Many photographers would kill to be in here, he knew that much.

But not him.

He wanted to do what he had always been doing. In the open, on warzone, using his camera to spread the ugly truth sometimes the world didn’t want to see but needed to. He wanted his work to make a difference.

He never intended his work to look ‘fashion’ on Vere’s cover.

It was not like he had much of a choice now, if he wanted his father’s legacy to be what he wanted it to be: A news portal compromised to the truth of facts, to make a change in the world. Not something focused on profit only, like Kastor’s ideas of it.

Kastor was the one of them both who had a real penchant for money.

Once inside, the décor was dizzying him. Under an imposing glass frontage, the high ceiling of a modern architecture was contrasting with heavily adorned walls of paintings, tapestries and sculptures which were definitely fighting for space on his eyes. Somewhat edgy sort-of rococo wannabe style, that he could not deny, but definitely not his cup of tea on interior design. He liked it simple.

Cheap, one could say. But cheap, for him, meant no problem at all.

The people inside - just as fancily adorned as the décor - were staring at him.

He knew he was an attractive guy, and has never been ashamed of the attention his looks brought on him, much the other way around. But there was no such quality to those stares. They didn’t look at him to savor the view of a 6’4’’ olive skinned guy who enjoyed a bit too much outdoor sports and martial arts - and yes, it did show on his body, thank you very much.

They looked at him as if he was an alien.

Then he checked himself: loose plaid shirt over a tee, light scarf, jeans, hiking boots, his good old tan gear bag that used to carry his life within. Perfectly fine clothing for a photographer, it’s not like he’s underdressed or something.

Not his problem those people looking at him as if he was in rags liked to tie themselves up on suits that could cost one month or two of a rather high wage, let alone those poor creatures who would indebt themselves just to wear fancy.

On the reception balcony, he asked for directions on how to find the editor-in-chief. They were supposed to meet.  

“You” The man - just as suited up as anyone else’s on that darned office - lifted his head to eye him with the same weird look of disbelief. “Are looking for _Laurent_?”

That’s the name of his soon-to-be boss, yes. That much Jokaste informed him on that stupid email.

“He’s expecting me.” Damen sighed.

“My effing god, Radel, just look at _that_.” A young boy of early twenties came across, and by ‘that’ he thought he meant him. “I bet this is the new staff photographer, yes?”

The guy, poised, pretty and with an accent whose fricatives and inflexions denounced to be just as fake as his red long hair, was now openly leering at him.

“Yes” Damen said, wishing his voice, though polite, could betray a hint of a ‘fuck off’.

Apparently, however, it didn’t.

“Scruffy looking beefcake, nice. Me likey.” The readhead walked circling him, poising his words with a sultry tone. “I’m Ancel.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Damen” He said, a bit dismayed. “Laurent is expecting me.”

“He is.” Radel, the receptionist guy he talked to, said while giving Ancel a stern look.. “Sit here, i’ll send you in when he’s ready to see you.”

Ready to see him, Damen though with even greater dismay than being leered at by the bubbly redhead. But he did as directed.

He waited. Fifteen minutes. Then more fifteen. More twenty.

Damen was flicking at the screen of his phone, and he heard the voice of the Radel guy.

“You can come in” He said. “Hurry up”

Hurry up, said the guy who made him wait almost a fucking hour.

The private office of Laurent was considerably neater than the outer style of Vere. Modern décor, cleaner also, but yet impressively expensive. Well, at least here the designer knew better what he was doing.

Then he saw a brown leather chair, expensive to a fault, turning his back at him with a glimpse of an pale blond hair beneath it. The chair turned.

And there was Laurent. A blonde blue-eyed young man, younger than he expected. And much more modeling material than that Ancel guy, that’s for sure. Ancel, despite the fancy clothing and the poised prettiness, looked kinda… too much of a twink. Not that he disliked twinks, of course he did not. But he didn’t like them much when they looked just like if they got out of a boyband.

Not the case, here.

The man, though young, had one of the finest features Damen had ever seen in a face. A face that a camera would naturally gravitate to, actually. High cheekbones, lush lips but not pouty to make his features too girlish, sculpted perk nose, arched golden brows darker than the hair but not much darker as to weigh on his expression. Them, and the somewhat golden lashes guarding his sky-blue eyes, indicated his colour was natural, not bleach.  The clothing, of course, was hand-picked to look fancy but not overly luxurious: A high-collar purplish blue sweater, probably cashmere, under a cream lambskin suit. He also wore golden acrylic glasses of some very fancy brand that at least had the merit of complimenting his face beautifully.

He could almost sense Nikandros’ voice on the back of his head acknowledging his boss was beautiful, blonde, composed and expensive: just. his. type.

And cold. Ice cold eyes were on him with a hint of disregard. Not that it was a turn-down, actually, but his look was tinted with the same sense of disapproval for his presence there as anyone else had until now.

“Well” Damen decided to break the ice. “I am-”

“I know who you are, Damianos.” His voice was collected. “I was sent your _résumé_.”

“Oh.”

“Very impressive one, though.” He lifted an arched brow. “Extensive experience on covering conflict zones and investigative headlines, as well pointed by Jokaste. Who sent me an eloquent presentation letter with all your credentials. I feel” Laurent shifted slightly on his chair, elbows on the armrest and long milky fingers entwined. “Like a pet owner might feel when gifted with dead starlings at his doorstep.”

Damen felt his mouth go sour.

“What, my photographic reporter” He paused each word at him. “makes you think you can just swap into shooting fashion editorials instead?”

Yes, Laurent could be his type. Should be his type. Blond, check. Beautiful, check. And an  asshole.

He’s said to have a remarkable tolerance with problematic people. After all, he wasn’t brother of Kastor and ex of Jokaste out of nothing. But slights on his career were beyond his coping abilities.

He was going to have some problem with this particular asshole.

“So you think” He mimicked Laurent’s derisive sweet voice. “My credentials are not suitable for the rigorous quality standards of Vere Magazine?”

“Suitable” Laurent repeated, his mouth twisted into a fake smile. “Should the garbage Akielos tosses at my feet be suitable to me?”

“Would anything” A deep voice cut through. “Be suitable to you?”

“Uncle” Laurent subtly turned on the bearded middle-aged man who came across the room. Damen eyed him quizzically, he expected no one else here. And Laurent, beneath his cool stance, had something on his eyes.

“My nephew, you find fault on so much lately.” The man’s voice was mild, reasonable, despite his imposing presence. Funny thing was that, to Damen, he looked faintly familiar.

“I,” Said Laurent, keeping his voice composed. “Don’t think he has the profile this position requires.”

“Jokaste sent me a copy of her recommendation letter as well, and I was quite impressed.” The man said, voice just as calm. “And I doubt anyone with a drop of Theomedes’ blood on his veins would not meet any expectancies we’d have.”

“Theomedes’ blood.” Laurent echoed his uncle’s voice.

“Did you know my father?”

“Why, of course.” The man answered, bearing a half-smile Damen didn’t like at all..

Stunningness and assholery aside, there had been something else bugging him about Laurent: he was too young to be editor-in-chief of Vere. Now he understood why, and did not like it. And liked even less that, maybe, Laurent would right now be thinking the same about him.

That his family name got him inside this job.

Damen never ever used his family to grant himself any professional favors, he abhorred the very idea of it. But he _was_ one of the heirs of Akielos. That Kastor sent him here, to something completely out of his league, a backhand cheap shot disguised as a fantastic professional opportunity, was also a statement to his current inability of throw him out of his father’s company without setting a judicial shitstorm upon himself. Moreover,  Akielos, a daily newspaper, and Vere, a fashion magazine, were entwined under the same mass-media company. Which was presided, now, by the man he had in front of him.

Laurent’s uncle.

What’s his name, again? He kept forgetting it all the time, it was the kind of thing Kastor would know best than him.

It doesn’t matter, though.

He knew that, whatever sort of cunning pitfall Jokaste and Kastor set up to get him as a photo editor at Vere, it must work on both ways. It was a pitfall planned not only at him, but at Laurent as well.

It was pretty clear now Laurent would face consequences if he decided to fire him.

And if the whole story sounds fishy, it’s because it is.

“It was me, my late brother Aleron and your late father Theomedes who started the company, on the very beginning.” Laurent’s uncle kept talking. “Back then Akielos and Vere used to be one single editorial board, neither of them existed the way they are now. It’s very good to have you here, at Vere, and to see you are living up to your father’s good name.”

Laurent’s eyes flashed at him, Damen felt his stomach drop.

Only now he came to realize something critical. ‘Uncle’ meant Laurent was son of Aleron.

Brother of Auguste.

Oh, shit.

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh. Fucking. Shit.

“I bet,” Laurent was glaring daggers at him, but his uncle kept a conciliatory voice. “You both will make a great team.”

“Sure, uncle.” Laurent managed his voice to get out of his throat as saccharine as he could muster. “He’ll be a great asset for our staff.”

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter, sorry for the delay. Unbetaed, and I must warn - english is not my mother tongue. So there will be grammar/spelling misshaps here and there. And I'd love, loooove to have a beta for this fic. If anyone's interested! *wink wink* 
> 
> Aaaaand... Well, on with the show.

 

* * *

# II

* * *

 

# The Get Along Gang

 

 

Right after his doomed meeting with his boss, Laurent sent him out to meet his co-workers.

“You’ll report to them for anything you might need. ” He gestured towards a small group across the room. “And to me when, and only when, I summon you. These are simple directions I think even you, with whatever native intelligence you might possess, can follow. And I am observant on how well you can do as told. Aimeric!” He raised his voice just a bit, and a rather cute twenty-something brunette hurried up as if he was a trained puppy, glinting Aston-Martin car keys in hand. “I will go for a ride.”

Laurent grabbed the keys with garb, and elegantly strolled out of the office.

“What are you looking at?” The brunette snapped at him as soon as Laurent left. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Uh” Damen frowned, taken aback by the gratuitous display of animosity towards him. “Sorry?”

“Don’t mind Aimeric.” He felt a conciliatory hand on his shoulders, one of the men from the group Laurent appointed to him. “After his alpha leaves, he always tries to exercise some dominance over the rest of the pack. Or so says the Dog Whisperer on TV, it’s almost the same thing.”

“Fuck off, Orlant.” Aimeric fumed, to then stroll out of the office very much in the same way Laurent did.

“Orlant.” Damen repeated.

“Yeah, Orlant, assistant photographer. Me and Lazar guy over here.” He patted the other guy beside him. “That one over there, looking at Aimeric with lost puppy dog’s eyes, is Jord, assistant photo editor. ”

“Lost puppy dog eyes…?”

“Ah, that. A long and rather unpleasant story which gets significantly better after some beers. You in?”

“Sure.”

 

***

 

“I mean,” Lazar, the other photo assistant, was grinning openly while holding a long neck beer in a noisy small pub near the Vere building. “You managed to survive your first meeting with Boss.” He lifted his bottle, so did everybody else. “Cheers to that.”

Damen eyed them behind a full beer mug he was about to gulp down.  He knew he’d better stay away from beverages in a mood like that - when he felt he had a good reason to get himself drunk - but what the hell. He was there, beer was there; and getting a bit drunk - a bit, mind you - would be much better than keep himself thinking about his present problems.

At least he could try a sort of damage control.

“You speak as if it’s sorta remarkable deed, or something.” Damen replied mildly.

“It is.” Orlant said. “He usually devours the new meat in the morning, along with his Starbucks Frapuccino.”

“He’s not that bad.” Jord, who was older than the rest, retorted. “I mean, he hardly qualifies as the type to run for Mr. Congeniality, that’s for sure. But there’s also a lot of exaggeration on Laurent’s myth at the market.”

“Unless, of course, Aimeric forgets how he likes his frapuccino and brings out something else than what he ordered.” Lazar said, mock tone. “Then he will eat people alive; brains, guts and all.”

“Aimeric goes to buy his coffee at Starbucks on working time?” Damen was taken aback. And drinking more beer.

“Well, he’s one of his personal assistants.” Jord said, a bit apologetically.

“And his personal bitch.” Orlant said, mock tone firm in place. “It will pain Jord to hear, but I bet if Laurent snapped his fingers, Aimeric would flip over and whim.”

“It does not pain me.” Jord said, flat tone belying him a bit.

“It speaks more against Laurent than against Aimeric, really.” Damen stated, thinking privately that it was interesting to see that Jord, art director, had a crush on Aimeric, Laurent’s assistant who gets Starbucks frapuccinos for his master. He could relate to that. Sorta. “You find it funny, but it’s a bit servile.”

“Servile it is, and you better get prepared.” Lazar said. “He meant it when he said he’d summon you.”

“Like, he calls me and I have to drop everything I’m doing to get to what he wants?” Damen frowned, a bit tipsy already. “And you guys put up with that?”

Their quizzical silence stated that, in fact, they did.

“Things actually get to work this way.” Jord said, plaintively. “His way.”

“Or the highway.” Orlant completed. “You do not cross the Ice Queen.”

“Ice Queen?” Damen asked.

“Ah, Orlant has quite a collection of nicknames for the boss.” Lazar said. “Ice Queen is the most obvious.”

“Ice Queen. White Snake. Princeling. Frigid Paris Hilton. And my favorite, Cast Iron Bitch.”

“Guys.” Jord stifled a laugh. “He wants to know why ‘Queen’.”

“No I don’t.” Damen snorted, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Which was clearly not enough, given what he was really asking about.

“He certainly doesn’t ring a bell on the straight side of the fence, does he.” Orlant said, absentmindedly.

“We don’t know that.” Lazar said. “Guy doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t party. It’s not like we have meet him with a boyfriend, or anyone living for that matter.”

“What?” Damen simply could not stop himself from showing interest. The stupid things he did when he got his brain full of beer.

“Oh, wait. Are you _interested_?” Jord asked, apparently taken aback.

“No! I-”

“Well, well, well. Seems Ancel was right, yet again.” Lazar said, a mock quality on his eyes. “Orlant, my boy, you still hold the title. Although I could not pick him as gay. Better for us, it seems!”

“I am not-”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, I keep being the Lone Straight of Vere, why thanks a lot.” Orlant cut him in, snickering. “The better, too, more chicks for me. While it pains me to say, beef here would be serious competition. Too bad for him he’s totally barking up the wrong tree, though.”

“Hey, wait, It’s nothing like that, I-”

“Dude, relax.” Lazar said. “No need to rush back to the closet. It’s, like, common ground here, no one will pick on you for that. It’s Vere, where everyone is stone cold gay with the possible - and I said ‘possible’ - exception of Orlant.”

“Hey-”

“I didn’t say I ain’t gay.” Damen snapped, cutting Orlant on his protest about Lazar’s last words. “I am trying to say I have no hots for Laurent! Nothing! Nada! Zero!”

The three eyed him carefully.

“Don’t you.” Orlant sneered. “Ha. Like hell you don’t.”

“I do not! But even if I did, I-”

“Dude...“ Jord said, slowly. “This may be… a problem.”

“Oh, boy” Lazar seemed genuinely stricken. “The poor thing doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

“Well, you certainly are not the first, and won’t be the last. But let me spill the beans for you.” Orlant answered to him, a bit more serious. “There are two thing you don’t do in Vere Mag. First, you do not fuck with the Ice Queen. Second… You do not fuck the Ice Queen. Nobody does. And, by nobody, I mean no-bo-dy.” He rested his back at the chair. “Consider yourself warned, beef.”

 

***

 

Damen stumbled through the door of the rented flat he was currently living in, since he could not stay at Nikandros forever and the place he called home was still off limits to him due to his divorce complications.

Of course he was far more wasted than he intended to be.

So much for his ‘damage control’, really.

At least those guys seemed cool. Not that his life would be easier, though.

He could imagine them thinking: Damen, new photo editor, staff photographer or whatever they call his job at the magazine; scruffy beef who drinks like a boozer and has the hots for bitchy editor-in-chief Laurent. Not the coolest thing to have them thinking about him, but right now - head heavy with beer and all the other things that took him to drink all that alcohol on a first place - he didn’t seem to care much.

The dim illumination of the city lights through his window was enough to guide him to his room. There, he turned on the lamp on the drawer beside the bed, sitting awkwardly in there to pull off his boots and socks. He let his body loll to the side, breathing slow while stretching his arms, reaching for his gear bag besides the bed. He propped himself on an elbow and fumbled inside of it, grabbing a bunch of old pictures tucked on a lateral zipped pocket.

It was odd to keep physical pictures on a time people not only kept them on digital mediums but also shared them like crazy on social networks, but Damen was - and always had been - a traditionalist. He liked best the idea of pictures taken not from a phone, but from an analogic camera which would require a developing tray, the picture slowly showing itself at the tank, the gratifying sensation of knowing only there the final result of that perfect shot you wished to capture just right.

Each one of those pictures had shown themselves to him like that.

There was his father, who cherished his journalist son as the carrier of his legacy.

A fierce journalist, his father was. And committed to his people’s welfare, never swayed by the money the company brought him. ‘We must never forget who we are’, he used to say when insisting to cover the news on the Ellosean Sea on his terms, not favoring just one side of the conflict between Rabat* and Akielos - his family’s homeland land and the inspiration for his father’s company name. The two countries fought each other time and again for almost five centuries, culminating at the Great Eastern War and what came after. A peace treaty imposed by the Eastern United Nations, in which Rabat acquired Delpha and Sycion to accommodate hundreds of thousands of rabatian refugees - the Centre Coalition.

His father knew peace, for his people, meant not only peace itself, but also land. The lands from Acquitart to Sycion, where both rabatians and akielons used to live and whose borders came back and forth at each war. The civilian armed conflicts between rabatians and akielons since the Centre Coalition chased his father away from his home all the way to New York right after the War of Sanpelier. So he settled on another country and started fighting for what he thought to be the best for his people, even afar.

Damen was born in America when his father was already a wealthy man, but he never forgot the flag of his father’s homeland on his backyard. Or the majestic description of the ruins of Marlas, the olive trees of Sycion. His father was a firm believer his people deserved their land back.

He used to believe so, too.

Auguste proved him they should be able to coexist in peace. Somehow. Land, pride and war should not be more important than this, for both sides.

It was the first time his visions and beliefs clashed with his father’s.

His fingers trailed the strong line of his jaw. The somewhat cocky smile that Damen remembered so well, perfectly captured on that picture. He didn’t even need the golden hair to glow on his own. For he was bright and warm like the sun. Above it all, he was devoted to his cause, a cause of peace, a commitment with the truth that, besides nations and land, they were all men. They did not need to fight, they must live peacefully, together, they just forgot how to do it, focus on what was really important. And it was his duty - ‘our duty’, he used to say - to make them _remember_.

Damen knew well that heaviness on his chest. Throat choking, eyes wet.

Auguste, fierce handsome Auguste. Straight like an arrow, too. Damen wasn’t, he knew that much even back then, when he was on the cusp of adulthood and all fears of what his father could think of his son fancying both girls and boys. Maybe, just maybe, his admiration towards Auguste hid a crush on him, like everybody else had. How could they not? It didn’t matter, though. Above all things Auguste was his friend, his role model of what a photojournalist should be, an example of a man committed to his ideals.

Auguste firmly believed that that distant decision of the former Eastern Committee of Inquiry after the Eastern War, which was subdued by the Centre Coalition, should be fully respected: Rabatians should not dominate Akielons and Akielons should not dominate Rabatians on the common territory, if they were to coexist on the same place.

Many people didn’t buy Auguste’s intentions, though. Because, just like Damen, he also was the son of a refugee made wealthy by a press media company; but rabatian, not akielon. It was easy to talk about peace when it’s not your side of the fence that bleeds the most, some would say, and with good reason at both sides.

Rabatians wold say akielon raids had costed many rabatian lives in the past and displaced thousands more; it's only fair that they respect the Coalition imposed by the treaty. Akielons would say rabatians also took akielon life and blood in the past and at the present, the Coalition had no right to take their land away. And some dissidents from the government  would do whatever it takes to get it back.

The extremists of the Kyros, openly named as terrorists by Rabat and their sympathizers abroad. The more powerful they grew, the more Rabat would use military force and politics to harm even more the already weakened akielon government.

His father used to say his people had their right to hold a grudge on their oppressors. Of course he condemned extremist acts and could see that the kyroi would only grow stronger where the government grew weak. But he did not totally abhor them.

Then the people his father did not totally abhor killed Auguste.

He was there. A conflict-zone coverage alongside Auguste in the tail end of the War of Marlas. He was young, a promising rookie who didn’t even finished college, son of Theomedes. Auguste was there to cover the conflict. He was the golden star, award-winning photojournalist that above all was devoted to spread his beliefs.

It did not matter. He saw it happening. He saw the kyroi taking Auguste hostage, he was taken as well. He begged them to not kill Auguste, that it would make everything worse. He begged and cried and screamed for nothing.

In public, Theomedes’ rather restrained reaction towards Auguste’s death soured the relationship with Aleron, Auguste’s father and one of the members of the press-media empire his father was a part of. Aleron, who expected his father’s total commitment on fighting the whole akielon cause from the moment the extremists killed his elder son.

His father didn’t. Aleron and his brother swayed towards the right wing of rabatian politics, fracturing what could have been a prosperous partnership between the two families.

The exact opposite of what Auguste would have wanted, if alive.

In private, Damen screamed out his accusations of his father having ties with the terrorists that slaughtered Auguste. Only that could explain him being alive while Auguste lay dead.

Nikandros told him many many times he should not feel guilty about it. There was nothing you could do, he said. How could have you talked Auguste alive out of that wreck of a situation? There was no way how. But he knew the truth of it. Auguste, despite his work, his position, his beliefs, was killed for no better reason than being a rabatian in the wrong place and at the wrong time.

Damen was spared for no better reason than being who he was. Blood of their blood. Son of his father.

And he would have to live with that.

 

***

 

“You clumsy giant, watch out!”

Seven-thirty in the morning. There was Damen, getting out of the subway station close to Vere, to be almost ran over by a young man fresh out of Starbucks.

Aimeric. It wasn’t even working time already and the poor guy was rushing to the office with his master’s frappucinos and a handful of french croissants.

The day didn’t even start out yet, and already looked so promising.

Once inside, it only got better and better. The office was actually quite busy, and it wasn’t eight o’clock yet. Laurent seemed to be there already, but the buzz around him was all about Vannes - the board’s senior art director he didn’t know yet - stating new headlines on the mag’s issue about to come.

He shrugged, mindset as he was on doing his job as smoothly and impersonally as possible. Best for his mental health, that was his conclusion from last night.

He also decided to stay away from Laurent as much as humanly possible for the job to work. Because besides Laurent being a royal dick, there was the flat-out fact that revolving around the brother of Auguste certainly doesn’t qualify as the sane thing to do.

But it’s not like he had plenty of choices now.

If he wanted to preserve his father’s legacy, he would have to play along while he gets Nikandros and his attorneys to sort a way to neutralize Kastor and Jokaste. For that, he needed time; and there was no better place to buy it than here.

Stay quiet, play dead, sooner or later he’d smart Kastor out.

He got his laptop out of his bag, opening it to check on his emails. Surprise, surprise: Monopolizing his inbox, there was Laurent - six or seven messages, from late night until dawn.

Note to self: Among all other things Laurent was believed not to do, one should include sleep. Also, his resolve on staying away of Laurent would be short-lived.

“Oh, shit.” Lazar’s voice stood up from the crowd. “Here he is, shit shit shit.”

He eyed Lazar, who was staring at the hall with plain dismay on his face, and followed his gaze.

And he saw no threat that could catch his attention. No Laurent, no Uncle of Laurent, nothing.

“Oh, man, it’s too fucking early for that.” Orlant said, looking at the same direction.

He looked again.

A boy of, what, fourteen _at best_ was standing at the hall. Tumble of brown curls on his head, big blue eyes and a lovely face. Sneering at them as if he was, like, a very dangerous pomeranian puppy or something.

“I bet” The boy said in a high-pitched voice that stated clearly he was more a child than an teenager. “Last night you fucking twats were drinking your asses off at that shithole you call a pub. Right? You do it, like, every other day.”

Damen furrowed his brows at the vision of a very pretty young lad with such a mouth. That, however, did not seem to surprise the others. Well, well; he shrugged. Not his kid, not his problem.

“Is that what are you paid for?” The boy snarled again, apparently waiting for an answer.

Which no one gave.

“Excuse me,” Damen said, since no one seemed to step up to say something. “Are you talking to us?”

“Why yes, you stinkin’ meatball with ugly stubble all over your the face.” The boy shot out, unabashed. “Never been introduced to something called razor, you?”

“Wha...” Damen scoffed, absolutely appalled. “Do you know this kid?”  

Orlant and Lazar nodded in a way that meant they did. Jord was pressing his forehead on his palms, exasperated.

“I am Nicaise. You, whoever you are, are not important enough for not knowing me.” The boy approached and hissed at him, almost spitting in his face. “By the way, who are you? Some charity-case of Jord? Lazar? Are those dorks bringing their one-night-stands to the office, now? I guess so, or the security wouldn’t let you in. If that’s the case, this ought to be the lamest way to woo someone into their beds.”

Damen kept his eyes at the boy, plain dismay on his face.   

“Nicaise, that’s enough.” Jord finally stepped in. “This is Damianos, our new photo-editor.”

“ _This_ is our new photo-editor?” The boy sneered. “Okay, I get Laurent’s not what we can define as normal, but this-” He gestured loudly at him. “-borders insanity!”

“On that we agree.” Damen said under his breath.

“Anyway, Nicaise,” Orlant decided to cut in. “What can we do for you?”

“Why thank you for asking, you useless dipshits are required at the Boss’ office. Meeting with the board’s members or whatever. Don’t keep him waiting, you know he hates it. Too bad he’s in an awful mood already, but that is not my problem.” Nicaise turned on his heels gracefully and walked towards the out door. “Good luu-uck!”

As Nicaise left, the group started to stand up and prepare to meet Laurent. Just like that.

“Wait a second” Damen was still fighting to grasp the concept that a teenager was able to do this to an entire team of grown-up professionals. “Who is this boy?”

“You heard him say, he’s Nicaise” Jord said, dismayed. “Laurent’s _other_ assistant.”

“You mean, this _kid_ is Laurent’s assistant? Like Aimeric?”

“Oh no, not like Aimeric, no.” Lazar said. “You don’t see Aimeric bossing us around, do you?”

“He bosses me around alright.”

“He thinks he’s above you on the alimentary chain.” Jord said, matter-of-fact.

“Does he.” Damen scoffed.

“Anyway” Jord went on. “Nicaise’s not only Laurent’s assistant. He’s also his uncle’s relative, but from other side of the family. Or something like that. Talk about one complicated family, though.”

“Oh.” Damen sneered, his patience starting to feel its limits very, very close. “So the brat thinks he’s _royalty_.”

“It works for him well enough.” Jord shrugged. “We should move.”

 

***

 

Indeed, Laurent was expecting them alongside a slender, trendy thirty-something woman and a sneaky-looking middle-aged suited man.

And ‘awful mood’ was a hell of an understatement.

“I sent you” He pointed his finger at him. “Seven emails.”

“You did.” Damen shrugged. “Late at night.”

“Well,” Laurent said, the ever present derisive softness even sharper. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“People are usually sleeping, late at night.”

“ _Aha_.” Laurent nodded, voice flat.

Damen chose to ignore the provocation. Mental health, he thought to himself, mental health is important. Don’t bait the princeling, buy yourself time.

“You must be Damen,” The woman raised her arm for a handshake. “I’m Vannes, senior art-director. This is Guion, a member of the magazine’s board.”

“Vannes, Guion, pleased to meet you.”

“So” Jord seized the cue. “Had the board sent a concept for us to work with?”

“That was why I was trying to mail this brute-”

“Damen” Damen interrupted Laurent, breathing slowly.

“-Damen-” Laurent repeated, on a saccharine voice. “-about. Since our new photo editor has quite an experience on conflict zone coverage… They suggested to seize that on our next editorial.”

“And how you think of doing that?” Damen asked.

“It’s on your email box.”

“I checked it in the morning.” Damen ignored Laurent’s sneer and said on a calm voice. “You sent me some of my work on conflict-zone coverage. I am afraid I did not see your point there.”

“The board was thinking on doing a shoot inspired on the conflict zones you covered.” Guion said.

Damen blinked. And blinked. And blinked again.

Because _of course_ his ears weren’t capturing right what Laurent just said.

“So?” Laurent waved his hand. “What do you think?”

“You want to make a fashion shoot” Damen said, slowly, his index finger flickering around the stubble on his face. “Inspired on… conflict-zone aesthetics?”

Laurent and Vannes exchanged some glances, the rest of the team seemed expectant.

“Like, glamourize _war_ to… sell dresses?” Damen tilted his head.

To the silence that ensued, he scoffed lightly.

Laurent said, “You think it’s a bad idea?”

“I think we could say that.”

“And what if” Laurent’s voice was a velvetine hiss. “You are to do it even if you don’t want to?”

Damen took a moment before answering.

If he opened his mouth right now, he’d blow it all up to pieces. Because it wasn’t possible that Auguste’s brother would have the galls to propose him, a photojournalist that shooted some of the most gruesome conflicts on recent history, to make a fashion editorial toned on ‘chic border conflict’ or whatever.

Every instinct on him was shouting to tell Laurent to shove this editorial up his finely chiseled ass.

(By the way, why the heck did he notice how fabulous his ass looked on the pants he was wearing?)

However, that would gain him precisely nothing. He’d quit Vere Magazine, Kastor would have the leverage he needed on him, Laurent and the stupid board would have another photographer to shoot this wreck.  

It was not just a matter of playing dead, he thought to himself. He would have to play it _smart_.

“Well, I guess you do remember some other fancy fashion magazine had an idea like this some time ago.” Damen said, a bit more conciliatory. “ And back then it was a blunder of poor taste, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” Vannes said, a flicker on her eyes belying she would be his best shot out of it.

“The whole idea could be easily misread on the mass-media.” He kept going. Laurent had his eyes fixed on him, Damen ignored them. “Even if we did intend a political positive message beneath it, it’s very hard to hit jackpot on such a literal reading of a real situation. Because political message or not, this is still a fashion editorial. Things must look pleasing to sell. War does not look pretty, though”

He made a pause, testing his waters.

“There’s also the sensitive issue on sexualizing models alongside war soldiers.” Vannes completed. “That can be a mess.”

“I suggest we approach a safer thematic than warzone.” Damen pointed out.

“And what would you suggest instead?” Vannes said, positively interested. “Keeping the aesthetics, if you like.”

“How about focus on strong feminine figures, like leaders on a post-apocalyptic scenario?”

“Biker clan-leaders on a post-apocalyptic scenario.” Vannes nodded.

“Like, Mad Max and the Fury Road?”

“Imperator Furiosa, yes.” Vannes almost purred. “Strong feminine character, killer figurine.” She turned to Guion and Laurent. “I like this.”

“I like this, too.” Guion said, but significantly less sincere than Vannes. “Indeed it seems a better idea.”

“Well, well.” Laurent clasped his hands. “If everybody’s happy, I’m happy. Apocalyptic wasteland bikers it is.”

Damen allowed himself to shoot a satisfied look on Laurent, his lips curving ever slightly. Guion stood and addressed Laurent on some private matter, he felt Vannes’ hand pat his shoulder.

“Well done, Damianos.” She said. “Kudos for that.”

She walked Guion out of Laurent’s office and he was ready to do the same.

“Halt”, Laurent said.

Damen halted.

“Close the door, please?”

He did it, and turned to see Laurent standing right in front of him - perfectly attired as he had noticed before, crystalline blue eyes behind golden eyeglasses.

Damen secretly wished the prick wasn’t so damn beautiful.

“You played it well this time,” He purred, but his eyes were still as cold as ever. “Damianos.”

“I didn’t realize this was a game.”

“You didn’t” Laurent repeated, a step back.

Damen stated his denial on a hum.

“Is this your personal opinion?” Laurent asked, touching lightly the desk.

“It depends of what you ask.”

“On war. Media. Propaganda.” Laurent repeated, his lips chiselling the syllables. “You personally think war and media should not serve as propaganda?”

“I always thought war should not serve for anything than war itself.” His nostrils flared, but he kept his cool.

Damen understood the hint Laurent was throwing at him.

Laurent’s lips curved upwards. A sneer, not a smile.

Damen also understood what was not said. It pained and angered him on equal parts, truth to be said; but he would not address it. Not here, not now, not with _him_.

“Is there anything else you need of me?” He said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Laurent slowly swayed his head, circling his desk toward the chair.

“You think you played smart today, right?” He said, his voice on the same velvetine tone. “You have. Congrats. A tough situation, and you presented a practical and feasible solution.” Laurent’s fingers lingered again on the glass desk. “You think this - all of this - will go smooth for you, don’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t I think that?” Damen tried to mimic his soft voice.

“Yes, yes. Why would you think that.” Laurent smiled. “You’re dismissed, Damianos. But-” He halted, a dramatic pause. “I expect you to attend every single summon of mine from now. Understood?”

“Understood.” Damen sighed.

And left his office.

 

***

 

“Ooo, there he comes” Orlant snickered as soon as he entered their office.

“You played it well on the meeting, Damen.” Jord said, genuinely pleased. “You got us out of a potential disaster.”

“He did,” Orlant nodded. “And here I thought you were just a beefy beef.”

“With ugly stubble on your face” Lazar mimicked Nicaise’s voice. “Nah, beef, you keep it because I like it.”

“Ah, yes?” Damen sneered, sitting on his desk and stretching his broad shoulders. “Sorry, pal, but I don’t mix work and love.”

“Haha, that’s the biggest fucking lie you ever told in here.” Lazar laughed. “Ancel’s already did his homework on digging your life up for us.”

“What?”

“You and your former wife” Orlant said. “Jokaste, right? Human resources manager on your former magazine. Pretty chick, broke your heart and threw you outta your house, we know it all.” He tilted his head, rolling his eyes. “Ancel is currently quite obsessed over you, I must warn.”

“Also” Lazar said, a bit more serious. “I have quite the feeling the Princeling does not like you.”

“Oh,” Damen huffed. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Well, well. What can I do.” He shrugged, and opened his laptop to start his quest on visual references.

However, his phone started buzzing.

And buzzing. And buzzing.

He glanced at the visor, unknown number. Lazar, curious as he was, did it as well.

And burst into laughter.

“What?”

“Damen, dude, duuuude, you poor dude.” Lazar managed to say hipping in his laughter. “The boss really, really doesn’t like you.”

“Wha-”

“Oh, no, man, I am so so sorry…” Jord said, pained as he saw the blinking screen of his buzzing phone. “...He gave your number to Nicaise.”

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rabat = Back on the times when Captive Prince was a webseries on Freece’s livejournal, that was the original name of Laurent’s country. Since Vere sounds too much like Vogue, Rabat his country will be! And yes - this is my take on what would be of the conflict between two enemy countries on the present day. 
> 
> People, I'm sorry, but things... had to be this way. But I promise I will make as many fics of 'Auguste lives' as I can - but not this one.  
> There's the angst, I had to keep it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to tumblr user @twistinthekaleidoscope, who is my partner-in-crime for this one. Come say hi to her!

* * *

#  III

* * *

 

#  Mission: Impossible

 

 

It was seven forty-five in the morning, and Damen was inside Laurent’s office.

Nicaise had called. Actually, Nicaise had called about thirteen fucking times that night to let him know - in pretty colorful vocabulary - that Laurent wanted to see him at his office. 

First. Thing. In. The. Morning. 

And, when he was about to go inside, Aimeric had the galls to give him the croissants and a tray of Starbucks frappuccinos. 

_ Get them in _ , he said,  _ since you will be the first person to see him today.  _

Damen had to hold a very tight control on himself to keep from throwing the entirety of Laurent’s breakfast on Aimeric’s face. 

The chant he kept repeating on his mind - a temporary gig, until he buys the time to fight Kastor off his hair - wasn’t working quite as good as it used to. That is, before he had Nicaise relentlessly pestering him on phone, mail, SMS, whatsapp, telegram or smoke signals. It worked better to think that Laurent, being the bonafide sneaky sadistic that he was, would want him to lose his cool just as he was about to. 

So there he was, croissants and frappuccinos in hand. 

“ _ Damen _ .” Laurent’s nauseatingly sweet voice rang on his ears, the irony of him using his nickname not unnoticed. 

He turned slightly to meet his glacial eyes. 

Laurent stared at the frappuccino tray on his hands, then at the table, then at his face; tilting his head as a faint scowl twisted his perfect mouth. 

Damen took a deep deep breath; and carefully put the tray and the bag on his table. 

Only then Laurent sat on his desk; his elegant fingers fumbling around some papers and a self-serving and satisfied look on his face. . 

“I did not tell you to sit.” Damen had touched the back of the chair to make room to sit down as well, but a flick of Laurent’s fingers froze him in place. 

Another deep breath. 

“We have a photoshoot to set up for the next month’s edition, as we discussed earlier. You will have a lot of hard work to do.” Laurent handed him a handful of photos, sheets and annotations on his very own poised handwriting. 

“Me?” 

“Yes, sweetheart. It was your suggestion the board had taken, wasn’t it? So, it means you are supposed to prepare for it.” Laurent tilted his head. 

“I am.” Damen said. “I’ve already picked some references-”

“ _ You _ picked some references.” Laurent repeated, lips curving as if Damen had just said something amusingly absurd. 

Well, he’d been around enough to know that next to anything he’d say on his behalf, Laurent would counter with more derisive irony regarding his capabilities. So he remained quiet as Laurent handed him a pile of papers. 

“This is detailed list of the material I require for the run-through before the shoot, which will happen in a week. I expect you know what a run-through is.” 

Damen did know what it was - a selection of pieces and references the editor would analyze prior to the shoot itself. And which should be set by him and his staff; as Laurent pointed out, it was his changes on the shoot concept the board stood for. However, there he had a huge list of the references he should be pointing out, as if he could not be trusted even this task. 

Another slight from Laurent, sure. But he was currently more upset about the list itself. 

Concepts on shirts, skirts, pants, boots, gloves, accessories. No specifications on models, sure, but still - the list of concepts went on and on and on. There was, also, specifications on motorcycle models, helmets, a true phyton - He wanted a damn living snake on the shoot? 

It was ludicrous. 

“You want  _ this _ ,” Damen was appalled.  “Ready in a  _ week _ ?” 

“The shoot, yes. But the list, I want the material available by tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Wha... How are we supposed to gather all this stuff in a day?!”

“Why, I don’t know. The details of your incompetence do not concern me. Get it done.” Laurent’s was almost sweet. “Damen.”

“But it’s impossibl-”

“That’s all” Laurent said, dismissing him with a lazy flick of fingers while looking down at the papers he had on his desk.

 

***  
  


Once out of Laurent’s office, Damen thought he would find respite from his problems - between his maimed pride and the incoming frantic quest for all the item Laurent had pointedly requested for his impossible run-through, that is. 

“Well well” He found Aimeric instead, who snatched the list out of his hands. “Isn’t it the picks for the run-through to come?” 

Laurent’s older assistant had a knack for mimicking his boss’ speaking mannerisms, as if by doing so he’d rub on himself some of his authority. Someone, however, had yet to warn him that it only worked quite the other way around. 

“Excuse me” Damen couldn’t help but sneer. “But weren’t you supposed to help me assemble this list up?” 

“Me?” Aimeric said, almost laughing. “I was thinking of watching your doom, instead-”

“He is going to help you.” Jord cut in. “First, because he is supposed to. Second, because if a run-through gone disastrous delays the Book’s assembly too much, his precious spot at Paris on the Fashion Week will be in serious jeopardy. But mostly, he’ll help because he is a good guy and I am asking him nicely.” 

Aimeric’s scowled his pretty mug. 

“Please, Aimeric?” Jord said, tilting his head and with a surprisingly unarmed tone on his voice. 

“He likes you.” Aimeric turned his snotty face to Damen. “For whatever reason I cannot fathom, I must say.” 

His eyes went from Damen to Jord.

“Get me a copy of this.” He said to Damen. ”I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Well,” Damen said to Jord after Aimeric left. “I’m supposed to thank you for that, right?” 

“Damn right you are.” 

“Sorry if I’m not in the mood to be thanking anyone right now?” 

“Believe me,” Jord shook his head. “Our lives would be a lot more difficult if The Book gets late for September’s edition. So we better have at least Aimeric by our side.” 

“What about Nicaise? Am I supposed to go lower myself further and kiss his teeny tiny feet for support?

“There’s nothing we can do to get Nicaise’s support, but if you keep him busy getting his calls and letting him pester you to boredom… Things will be just horribly painful, not life-threatening.” 

Damen let out a pained sigh. 

“One more question,” He said to Jord. “What is The Book?”

Jord eyed him in utter disbelief. 

“I… Don’t believe you just asked me that.” 

“Well,” Damen replied, crossing himself again, “ excuse me for not being familiar with the insides of a fashion magazine?” 

“The book…” Jord walked towards Aimeric’s desk and picked a spiraled notebook with a Vere Magazine cover, packed with paper clips and post-its. “This is The Book. I mean, this was The Book last month, now’s just a piece of junk Aimeric keeps for, I don’t know, sentiment? Yeah. Anyway, that’s what The Book is: a mockup with everything in the issue to come, out of Laurent’s notes and impressions.” 

“And what do I have to do with this sh… The Book?” 

“Most of it comes from the run-through we are supposed to set up for tomorrow?” 

“Oh.” Damen opened the notebook rather carelessly. “Honestly, it doesn’t look like that much of a big deal.” 

Jord let out a laugh. 

“Don’t worry, Mr. head-photographer.” He said, as if Damen had said something quite funny. “You’ll get to be acquainted with the real Book very soon. I must warn you, however, that part of Aimeric and Nicaise’s job is to guard The Book with their very lives, if need be.” 

“So if I get to carry the Book…” Now Damen could clearly see where Jord was going with this. 

“Yeah.” Jord’s face was a sly grin. “And you certainly will.” 

 

***

 

Damen thought the rest of his day would sum up to a crazed rollercoaster of gathering up all the things enlisted for the run-through. 

Crazed, however, was a hell of an understatement. 

He, former photojournalist who built up a prized career on conflict zone coverage, was finding out the hardest way possible that his knowledge, his prizes, everything he ever possessed on his former self at Akielos Newspaper meant absolutely nothing as he searched relentlessly for clothes, shoes and accessories on the legendary closets of Vere’s Fashion Department. 

And yes, he also found out that translating his concept of female biker clans on a post-apocalyptic wasteland to a real photoshoot would be a royal pain on his ass - since he could get the concept, yes, but he could not properly translate it onto the right fashion material the models should wear. 

Maybe that - making that damned list take form, visually speaking - kept him distracted enough to keep working as frantically as he had been, not realizing he was working way past his time to go home. And that, also, made him come up to Vere way earlier than he expected on the next morning. 

The dreaded day of the run-through. 

That fashion gig could not be his game. Sure, everybody knew that - and many on that magazine had made a point of it by rubbing on his face how inadequate he looked in there. Like Aimeric, like Nicaise. But it would not be an excuse for him to do a half-assed job just to go by. 

Also, he’d love to see Laurent’s face when he failed to bring him down once again. 

“My, you fell off your bed?” Jord, while coming in, seemed surprised to see him already there. 

“You’re not much of an early bird, still here you are.” Damen answered. “And I wasn’t even the first one to arrive. You late, pal.” 

“At least I shaved.” Jord let out a laugh. “And put myself on a suit to look nice.” 

Damen had a look on his flannel plaids and stone-washed old jeans, a stark contrast with a very neat-looking Jord. 

He shrugged. 

“Here,” Jord put a corduroy tan suit on his desk. “Wear this instead of your plaids.” 

“Uh, no.” Damen waved his hand. “Laurent is already aware of my, ah, hideous taste for fashion?” 

“Hey, I never said it’s ‘hideous’.” Jord replied. “And I actually had some work on my own to find you this. You’re big, you know? Too big for most of the samples here.” 

“Well, yes, what a big beef I am.” Damen said. “Seriously, Jord, thank you so much for that; I appreciate it. But I really don’t think it’s necessary-” 

“Cut the crap, you two!” A panting bewildered Aimeric stormed into the office, damned frappucinos in hand like always. “He’s coming in!!!” 

“This early?” Vannes, also there, seemed alarmed. “Shit.” 

“Yes, shit.” Aimeric frantically nodded. “Shit’s the word, but move your ass and let’s get the shit done!”

And, as if Aimeric’s words were an irresistible command, everyone inside the office started to do just that. 

Damen had had some preparation on the run-through as he came in and the night before, and on his head it was way more than enough. Seeing all those people running like desperates to open Perrier bottles, prop fashion magazines on right position and all sorts of pointless preparation for Laurent’s arrival made him feel a stark sense of uneasiness. 

But he was familiar of how fond Laurent was of those pointless displays of servitude from his staff.

“He’s on the elevator already!!!” Aimeric yelled, running back and forth with a pile of magazines in hand. “And guess what? His uncle’s coming too. Along with that stupid pea-brained pet of his.” 

“Who?” Damen asked. 

“What do you mean by ‘who’?” Aimeric retorted. “Nicaise, that friggin’ brat!” 

“Are all the clothes in the rack?” 

“All set, Vannes!” Lazar, also in there, answered. 

“And he’s on the hall, folks.” Orlant said, running to his position as everyone else did the same. “Impact on three… two… one…” 

The automatic door opened, and the world of Vere Magazine halted to silence.

There he was. 

Of course, perfectly attired on a satin deep blue satin suit with matching vest and high-fitting collar shirt, neatly tied by a silken brocade scarf and topped by an exquisitely structured darker blue wool overcoat. The dark clothing, planned in careful detail, made a stark contrast with his marble skin and pale golden hair - and oddly looked a bit too repressive on such a young man. 

But it did wonders to bring out that stupidly perfect face of his. 

An Ice Prince, for all what it’s worth. 

By his side, there was his uncle; his broader and bulkier figure also perfectly attired on an impressively beautiful and expensive looking - custom-made, of course - black wool suit. The vest underneath it was made of dark-grey wool with a matching-colored shirt, attired with a blood red silk tie. And, along the two of them, Nicaise on a suit that resembled a lot the attire of Laurent’s uncle. 

Laurent, strolling into Vere’s office with the innate grace of a supermodel, took his time to eye him from neck to toe and raise his right brow. 

Damen looked sheepishly at his plaid shirt, and then to the corduroy suit Jord had fetched for him. He'd never say it out loud, but he secretly wished he had heard Jord and put the suit in.Then again, how in the hell could he know that people on that madhouse would dress to a damn run-through as if they are to go to a royal wedding? 

“Hello, Damianos.” Laurent’s uncle, on the other hand, seemed far more pleased by his presence in there than his nephew. “I heard wonders about your insights for the shoot on Vere’s next edition.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Damen nodded, the sir stating that he - yet again - could not recall the man’s name. And sure as hell he could not count on Laurent or Nicaise to ease his doubt. Nicaise, oddly enough, was very quiet while at his side. Was Nicaise also the man’s nephew? Or a distant cousin?

“So it’s time to see those insights in action and save more of our time.” Laurent’s look on him, while heading towards the cloth rack, stated clearly that was the least of his problems. “Shall we begin?”

Damen stepped up to say something,  but was discreetly halted by Jord after a meaningful glance from Vannes. ‘Watch and learn’, it said - and despite he had the intention to show his good work, right at that moment it did seem a good call. 

Vannes was already at Laurent’s side, watching closely while Jord took his place on showing the head editor the samples of clothing, shoes and accessories he, Damen and his staff spent the evening, night and dawn picking up. Vannes kept nodding, however it was crystal clear that the final say on that matter was Laurent’s. 

He was not impressed. 

“I've seen this before”, he said, pulling the metal hangers with his slender fingers. “And this. And this. What's that, a flimsy remake of Mad Max with a clear eighties bias? Is that so..? If that's so, I'd like to remind the ladies and gentlemen that, also, had already been seen before.”

Laurent clicked his tongue, his voice dripping a dismayed nonchalance while Jord’s voice faltered slightly - but not slightly enough for Damen not to notice. 

Nicaise, too. Nicaise had his mouth shut, but it was painfully clear how much the brat was enjoying himself. And his uncle - who seemed to be a rather reasonable person - was also quietly watching Laurent’s sad spectacle. 

That was not just irritating - it was infuriating, really. Damen himself could tell the hard work behind every one of them, and also could pick a handful of good concepts out of that. And there he was, tired and sleepless after a night of real hard work that was being downright clocked by some pampered nasty little shit whose only pleasure in life was make other people miserable. 

Pampered little shit that now was rambling something oh-so-presumptuously-smart about the unacceptable differences on the concept design of two spiked leather jackets that, for him, looked exactly the same. 

Suddenly, everybody went dead quiet. 

“Damen” His voice was on a special level of saccharine, for which one could tell he was  _ furious _ . “Did I say something you found funny?” 

And Damen realized that he, while thinking on the ridiculousness of all that tragicomedy disguised as a run-through, let out a snorty laugh through his nose. 

Oh, boy. 

“So?” Laurent raised a pale eyebrow. 

Damen bit his lower lip, swallowing down the answer that first came to his mind.  _ ‘Yes, I find it terrific that you’re reducing every living being in this room because of two jackets that differ from each other by, what, the color of their buttons; and everybody here pretend this is the professional thing to do _ ’? He definitely could not answer that. 

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t find anything funny, it’s just... “ And he trailed off, hoping this would satisfy Laurent and stop the bloodshed to come upon his head. 

A pointless hope, that he could tell by now.

“Just…?” Laurent crooked a smile, all attentions on him. 

Damen might be new in Vere, but he already had time enough to realize the shark Laurent was. He had smelled the blood, and nothing would stop him from having it on his mouth. 

“I didn’t see much difference between the two jackets you and Vannes were pointing out, that’s all.”  He said, as much unarmed as he could. “Well, I am new to this stuff, I admit-”

“Stuff.” Laurent echoed him, deadpan voice stressing the final syllables. 

Oh, boy. 

“So,” Laurent slowly picked a destroyed shirt from the racket. “You are new to this stuff, you say.” He handed the shirt to Aimeric, who was looking at Damen with appalled eyes. “Might as well educate you a little, shall we? About the  _ stuff _ you are so ignorant of. Proudly ignorant until so, I’d risk to assume.” 

While picking a heavy tan leather belt with crystals incrusted all over the buckle, Laurent approached Damen to then lightly touch his plaid flannel shirt with his left hand. 

“You think you are new to this. You think the act of you, choosing this… interesting choice of clothing, state to the world how much you do not care for the frivolities of fashion. How cute. But I, as the frivolous fashion victim I am, can see what you meant here - with this plaid flannel over a shirt and stone-washed jeans. Casual hipster, yes? You think you are so unique wearing this in here.”

Laurent paired the shirt and the belt together, alongside black denim skinny pants. 

“Little you know, however, whether you adore it or find it a symbol of all things hipster, plaid is one of the most ubiquitous patterns in modern fashion. From Alexander McQueen to Vivienne Westwood, designers adore the cross-hatched pattern and its simultaneously preppy and punk connotations. Considering its current popularity, plaid's history may surprise you — after all, it hasn't always been our country's pattern of the choice.” 

Laurent now handed the shirt, belt and pants to Aimeric, while seizing a black leather pair of ankle boots. 

“Most of us don't know the difference between plaid and tartan. You, certainly, do not. Tartan refers to the unique cloth patterns which distinguish one Scottish clan or geographical region from another. By the original Scottish definition, a "plaid" was a Celtic kilt or blanket which served as an outer layer to battle the Highland elements. Plaid, as we know it, was later appropriated by British and American manufacturers, who created patterned fabric which resembled tartan. Though many of us may want to impose a plaid embargo on our most hipster-adjacent friends, tartan was actually literally forbidden in Britain during the 18th century. The fabric's rebel uniform association with the Scottish Rebellion of 1745 against the union of Scotland and England, making tartan prohibited in the country for nearly half a century under the Dress Act. The print didn't really resurface again until 1782, when plaid became legal, and it became in vogue to wear plaid gowns to formal occasions. Plaid gowns, can you imagine that? During the 19th century, the pattern made the leap from Europe to the U.S., where it became known by the moniker we know today: plaid.” 

Laurent now picked a pair of heavy golden and silver chains, alongside some pearl necklaces. He mixed them together, then paired them up with the shirt he had selected before. His eyes still locked on Damen, cold dismay on each blue flick of them.

“After several decades of developing into one of the United State's favored patterns, plaid returned to its insurgent origins as a form of liberated, devil-may-care style. Plaid became ubiquitous in the 1970s, adorning everything from suits to interior design elements. Across the pond, Queen Elizabeth II's Royal Stewart Tartan was appropriated by the punk movement in the form of ripped layers and shredded shirts. Spurred by the cultural phenomenon, Vivienne Westwood began to popularize her famously punk-inspired plaid on the coattails of the movement. Plaid was about to become a symbol of rebellion once more. In the 1980s, movies from The Heathers to St. Elmo's Fire had plaid in a preppy stronghold. Meanwhile, the grunge movement was starting to take form in the Pacific Northwest, spurring what would become plaid's most notorious decade yet. In 1995, couture designer Alexander McQueen took up Jacobs and Westwood's gauntlet by infusing his collection with tartan, naming the collection "Highland Rape" in reference to Scotland's mistreatment by the English in 1800s.” 

Laurent glanced now to the choice of clothing he was assembling in. He crooked a smile, then turned his head to the two jackets he and Vannes were debating about - before his snort interrupted him.  

“From that, your plaid pattern filtered from the runways to the magazines all over the world, and from them to the shelves of department stores, from which you probably picked up this sad mix of tartan and plaid done by someone who didn’t spend five minutes on understanding the difference between them two.”

He elegantly touched the jacket Vannes had on her hands, cowhide brown leather spiked with golden metals. Then he gestured to Aimeric, who brought up the shirt, the belt and the handful of necklaces. Laurent now tucked the shirt inside the jacket, then added the necklaces at its front while his voice kept as nonchalant as ever. 

While he was, verbally, tearing him apart right in front of his staff, after a night of hard work from all his team. 

“And that’s why, of course, a hipster-wannabe like you would end up with this plaid flannel shirt. To show the world how much you don’t give a fuck about the world you now have to live in. What you don’t know is that this flannel plaid you’re wearing came to your knowledge through an intricate process spinning through countless jobs. And it was initially picked from a rack like this, from people like us, from a bunch of ‘stuff’.”

Every pair of eyes were on him, specially three sets of sky blue. 

Nicaise’s eyes were on him, sardonically savoring his public humiliation. The uncle’s eyes, a shade lighter, showed nothing more than faint curiosity. And, at last, Laurent’s - two pieces of icy glass shards just as always, but now tinged with the satisfaction from this display of his power. 

Damen mouth was dry, there was a well on his stomach. Sure, he’d been through a lot on his life: His quarrels with his half-brother, his failed marriage, the things he’d seen and been through while doing the job he chose to himself. But despite it all Damen could positively say he had never, ever felt so much anger in his whole life. 

For he could think Laurent capable of cruelty. But this? A public verbal flogging over him saying ‘stuff’? 

“Well, Vannes, this is one look we can pull out of this. More of these and it’s a wrap for the day.” Laurent said, as if him reducing Damen to shreds right then meant nothing. “That’s all.”

 

***

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Check me out on tumblr at @captivebeing or @hbeing. Stay tuned!  
> There's fanart as well, and I will draw something on this AU.


End file.
